


Under the Guns of Rosas

by sanguinity



Category: Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: (only one limb), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ardent Handholding, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Loss of Limbs, Rosas Bay, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:14:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27512914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: During the battle of Rosas Bay, it is Hornblower who falls.
Relationships: William Bush & Horatio Hornblower
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Under the Guns of Rosas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldenhart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenhart/gifts).



> For goldenhart, who wanted Hornblower injured for once.
> 
> Warning for depictions of injury, although I made a point of not being super graphic about any of it.

Bush would never forget Trafalgar: the towering four-decker _Santisima Trinidad,_ the two French seventy-fours strapped to _Temeraire's_ sides, the thunder of the guns shaking his bones. The crash of splintering wood and falling rigging; the screams of the dying; the smoke in his eyes and throat; the blood-soaked sand beneath his feet. This battle he fought now would not end as well as Trafalgar: the _Sutherland_ had no _Victory_ to support her, nor was the _Sutherland_ an unscalable three-decker towering over her opponents. Even the mighty _Temeraire,_ with all her advantages and the fleet to assist her, had barely survived the battle and following storm to see England again; the poor _Sutherland,_ fighting alone and severely outgunned, never would. She would die here in Rosas Bay, a proud wreck of wood and cordage and canvas — if she did not burn, first — liberally watered with her men's blood. But even knowing how this must end, Bush still took a fierce joy in the fight, as fierce as his joy at Trafalgar: it was _good_ to bloody French noses, to cripple their ships and fill their bellies with hot metal. If Bush died here, it would be a well-earned and glorious death.

Rigging parted, blocks fell, and not even Bush's bellow, his throat hoarse with smoke, could be heard among the din. The _Sutherland_ was edging in on the three-decker alongside her, the better to make every shot count, even as the remaining French two-decker, fresh and as yet untouched by the battle, loomed up through the smoke on the _Sutherland's_ disengaged side. There was no longer anything to be gained by manoeuvring, penned in on both sides as the _Sutherland_ was, nor were there men to spare for the braces now; they must be herded and driven to the guns on the disengaged side, so that this last French ship, like her sisters before her, could feel the ferocity of _Sutherland's_ bite before she died. Bush leaped down into the waist, splinters flying all around him, grabbing men by the shoulders and physically propelling them to the unmanned guns, until the starboard guns joined the roar of their portside fellows.

Bush looked back to the quarterdeck for new orders, just in time to see Hornblower fall.

With the clear unreality of a dream, Bush felt his heart break in his chest.

"Sir!" he bellowed, and fought his way up the quarterdeck ladder to his captain, going to his knees beside him. "Sir! Sir!" He dragged Hornblower into his lap, and Hornblower gazed up at him, wordless with surprise. Hornblower's foot was gone; one leg ended in a splintered mess of bone and blood, and Bush bellowed for the surgeon's mates.

"Leave me here," Hornblower ordered, his face white with shock, the words visible on his lips but not audible above the guns, and then the surgeon's mates were upon them, busy with tourniquet and stretcher, and Hornblower's face contorted with pain as he clutched at Bush's sleeve.

"On the stretcher, sir, here, sir," one of the mates pleaded, urgent with his business but unwilling to shoulder aside a lofty lieutenant.

"You have to go below, sir," Bush pleaded with Hornblower. "Let them see to your leg."

"The battle…" Hornblower said, then stifled a shout as one of the mates did something to his leg.

"Have a care, there, you dog!" Bush bellowed at the hapless mate. "I'll see to the battle, sir. Let them see to your leg. Please, sir."

"On three, sir," the surgeon's mate said, and Bush saw they had the stretcher laid beside Hornblower, one mate at his legs and the other at his hips. "One! Two!" Bush seized two great handfuls of Hornblower's uniform coat at the shoulders.

On _three,_ Hornblower's body lifted into the air, coming down again on the stretcher. He cried out as his injured leg touched the deck.

"I'm sorry, sir, you have to go below, sir," Bush said, almost weeping to see his captain in pain.

The two surgeon's mates lifted the stretcher, and Bush scrambled to his feet to follow them. Hornblower said something, his hand reaching out for Bush, but his words were lost in the thunder of the nearby carronade.

"What was that, sir?" Bush asked, taking Hornblower's hand and bending his ear to Hornblower's lips.

"Cripple them, Bush," Hornblower said. "Make them feel it." And then he was being carried down the narrow ladder to the gundeck, leaving Bush standing on the quarterdeck alone.

Bush stood there stunned with grief, staring about him. One gun near him lay abandoned, its crew dead and no one to man it. The mainmast and foremast had come down — he had not heard the crash in his preoccupation. Canvas blinded the forward guns on the starboard side; where the canvas laid across the hot guns, flames leapt into life.

Hornblower had fallen, but the battle raged on. Bush caught up an axe and ran forward. The _Sutherland_ could not win this battle, but the French must be made to suffer: every last spar and mast shot away, every last ounce of French blood spilled. For Hornblower's sake, Bush would make the French feel the enormity of the _Sutherland's_ death.

He did not allow himself to think on the possibility of Hornblower's.

In the end, there was no question of striking Hornblower's colours, because there were no longer any colours to be struck. The _Sutherland_ was being raked brutally now — Bush could not think for the noise — but soon the _Sutherland's_ guns would bear again, if only they could survive these minutes of hellfire. Crystal, the master, tried to advise Bush to surrender — what more good could the _Sutherland_ possibly do? — but Bush drove him off again with curses. It was not Bush's place to strike Hornblower's colours while the man himself lay injured below.

Bush managed one last ragged broadside — of shot, there was no grape left — before the three-decker and the _Sutherland_ touched bows for the second time, the _Sutherland_ shuddering from the impact. Men swept down from the three-decker and clambered up from the gunships, and this time Bush had not enough men left standing to repel them. Hooker and Bush rallied whom they could; it had been long and longer since Bush had seen Gerard or Rayner. The boarders swept across the deck, impossible to resist, and Bush, bitter with rage, half-blinded by blood, his fighting arm dead and useless, was forced to surrender his sword.

The French lieutenant, dirty with gunsmoke, asked something in his filthy language. Bush heard the word _capitaine,_ and could guess the rest.

"The captain is below, injured!" Bush shouted, and prayed that it was so. The _Sutherland_ was sinking beneath them, the hold filling and the pumps smashed. The cockpit had already been evacuated, leaving Hornblower and the other wounded exposed to the gunfire that had raked the length of the ship. It was possible that Hornblower no longer lived; Bush might have killed him, by continuing the fight so long. But would Hornblower not prefer to be dead, than to live to see the surrender of his ship? At least the French would have no joy of her: Bush had fought the _Sutherland_ into a wreck that would never see battle again.

Bush's ears rang, as they had for days after Trafalgar, but he could still hear the wails of the injured and dying. There were few enough who could still walk into their imprisonment; they were driven below while the French marines stood guard over the hatchways — there were no longer any hatches to batten the prisoners under. Bush, Hooker, Crystal, and Savage, the only officers still standing, were herded together, and another guard stood over them.

"I must see my captain!" Bush implored the guard. He proved deaf or uncomprehending, and Bush gestured wildly with his good arm. "My captain! My _capitaine!_ He is below! He is injured! I must see him!" Frustrated, Bush tried to push past the guard to go below, but the guard barked an order and pushed Bush back. Still Bush tried to go below, disbelieving that he would be kept from Hornblower, and this time he found naked steel against his breast. Bush, stupefied with exhaustion, stared at the blade, and wondered if its embrace would be preferable to a French prison.

"Sir, sir, come away," said young Hooker, touching Bush's good arm. "Come away, sir, please, sir." The junior lieutenant's eyes were huge in his bloody and smoke-stained face, and with a pang, Bush saw just how young the boy was. If Bush fell now, with Gerard and Rayner dead or wounded, leadership would devolve on Hooker. That could not be allowed: injured as Hornblower was, he would need a more seasoned officer than Hooker at his right hand.

If Hornblower still lived, that was. It was maddening, not knowing if he was among the dead.

He stepped back and made an effort to compose himself for Hooker's sake. "You did well today, Mr Hooker. I'll make special mention of it to the captain."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," Hooker said, as if Hornblower's opinion could still do his career any good — how many years would they all spend in prison, waiting for freedom and Hornblower's letter to see the _Gazette?_ Assuming Hornblower lived long enough to write it. Bush scrubbed his face in his hand, itching with uselessness.

Over the guard's shoulder, Bush spied the French lieutenant coming up from below. He carried a sword whose hilt glinted with gold: Hornblower's sword.

"Sir! Sir!" Bush called, stepping forward, but the marine blocked his path. "My captain!" Bush called. "Have you been to my captain? Have you seen him?"

" _Oui._ "

Hornblower lived, then: the knowledge coursed through Bush like fresh life. "How is he?" Bush demanded.

" _Il est inconscient_ ," the Frenchman replied, and at Bush's confusion, he pursed his lips. "He… sleeps."

It was a black lie; Hornblower would never sleep while his ship was surrendered to the enemy. He was unconscious, or drugged, or both. In either case, the Frenchman had not come by Hornblower's sword honestly.

"You took his sword while he was too ill to surrender!" Bush accused, stepping forward in his outrage, and abruptly found himself facing a French bayonet again. There was a murmur from the other officers behind him. "You crept in and took it like a thief!"

The lieutenant's expression pursed with annoyance. "This way there will be no confusion later. Did he surrender? Did he not surrender?" The lieutenant shrugged, an infuriatingly French gesture. "We have his sword."

It was dishonourable and no better than could be expected of a Frenchman, to rifle a man's possessions while he lay ill or dying, but Bush was powerless to do more than object. "Let me see him," Bush demanded.

The French lieutenant considered, weighing the nuisance Bush was likely to make of himself on deck versus the risk to his prize of letting a vanquished officer roam unsupervised among his men below. " _Non,"_ he decided heartlessly. "You will wait here." He gave a few words of instruction to the guard and returned to the urgent matter of taking into his possession a disabled ship that was sinking beneath them while simultaneously being blown upon a lee shore.

In all his long years of war, Bush had never before been a prisoner; it was a slow kind of torture to see all the things that needed to be done and yet have no responsibility whatsoever for their completion. The French lieutenant detailed a prize crew from among the boarding party and returned to the three-decker, bearing Hornblower's sword to his admiral and leaving a tow-headed French midshipman in charge of the _Sutherland._ Under the midshipman's direction, the prize crew cut away the rigging's wreckage and set up portable pumps — the surviving Sutherlands were put to work — while the _Sutherland_ herself was taken in tow for the short journey into Rosas Bay. The _Sutherland_ wallowed heavily under his feet, sullen and obstinate under tow: the pumps the French had set up could not save her; at best, they would only delay her demise. Bush had seen many a prize sink after battle; in the storm after Trafalgar, hardly a one had made it back to England, the ships wrecking themselves on the rocks or foundering under tow, taking their French and Spanish wounded to watery graves. It was unlikely that the _Sutherland's_ wounded would know a similar fate with a safe harbour so near, and yet Bush seethed with uselessness, all too aware of the _Sutherland's_ helpless wounded, Hornblower among them.

Inside Rosas Bay, the prize crew dropped her anchor but could not set it: Bush gave even odds as to whether the _Sutherland_ would drag her anchor or founder first. There was another agonising delay while boats plied between the ships and the shore, carrying officers and instructions; infuriatingly, the prize crew occupied themselves by stripping the _Sutherland_ of her wealth, prising free her brass fittings and rifling the pockets of the dead and wounded. Bush futilely tried to chase off the scavengers when they came near him, but they rightly paid no mind to the toothless ravings of an English prisoner.

At last there was a different kind of activity: a boat arrived with orders, and after more confusion than Bush would have tolerated, the prize crew constructed a set of sheers and rigged a tackle from it. While Bush was mentally criticising their work, there was a bustle at the aft companionway: two French seamen, bearing a stretcher between them, attempting to navigate it past the remains of the coaming. Hornblower lay upon the stretcher, senseless.

"Sir! Captain Hornblower, sir!" Bush called, and found the guard abruptly blocking his path again, scolding him in French: Bush had tried to go to his captain. "He's my captain! Let me see him, please!" Bush implored, but was thrust back, the guard's French undecipherable but his meaning clear enough. Bush watched in agony as the stretcher was brought to the tackle; bodies gathered around and obscured Bush's view so that he could not tell if the work was being done correctly. The stretcher swung up into the air and hung there suspended for a moment; Bush could see the weight of Hornblower's body distorting the fabric, but not the man himself. Then the stretcher descended beyond what remained of the hammock nettings, out of Bush's sight.

Bush watched it go with a pang. From now until they were paroled and exchanged, the Sutherlands would likely be divided and held in separate places, the officers here, the hands there, the wounded in a third. Bush might see Hornblower again after this, a few minutes at a time as the French authorities permitted it — or he might never again, if Hornblower succumbed to his injury. This glimpse of Hornblower being lowered into a waiting boat might very well be Bush's last.

"Who is senior here?" a French voice asked in heavily accented English, and Bush turned his head to find himself being addressed by a French midshipman — not the tow-headed one leading the prize crew, but one dark and curly-haired, younger and shorter than the other.

"William Bush, first lieutenant of the _Sutherland,_ " Bush replied. "I'm second-in-command after Captain Hornblower."

"You will come," the midshipman instructed. So this was to be Bush's future, imperiously ordered about by Frog midshipmen. But the boy gestured for Bush to proceed him to the entry port, and hope abruptly rising in him, Bush put aside the sleight. Gaining the port, he looked out: there below him was a ship's boat with Hornblower's stretcher laid amidships between the two ranks of seamen. The midshipman went down into the boat before Bush, taking his position at the tiller; at a gesture, Bush too descended the ladder, stepping into the boat as gently as he could and seating himself on a thwart at the head of Hornblower's stretcher. A marine guard descended and settled himself behind Bush, but Bush paid him no mind, his attention on his captain.

"Captain Hornblower, sir," Bush said lowly. Even in repose, Hornblower's face was drawn with pain and ashen under the gunsmoke that dirtied it. He was still wearing his uniform coat, although it was unfastened and askew, his neckcloth undone and laying loose in the open throat of his shirt. His coat still bore its epaulettes — he had been spared the indignity of having them stolen by the light-fingered prize crew. Below, his legs had been bound together, the uninjured leg protecting the injured one, with copious padding between them. One trouser leg had been cut away above the knee, revealing a skinny and blood-smeared limb that ended abruptly in a tourniquet and a massive bundle of bandages; between the two, Hornblower's skin showed dark and angry. "Oh, sir," Bush said, touching Hornblower's shoulder as he never would have dared to do had his captain been awake.

At an order from the midshipman, the boat's crew pushed off from the _Sutherland's_ side, the portside oarsmen backing water to turn the boat. When she steadied on a course, Bush turned to look over his shoulder. The citadel of Rosas loomed, massive and forbidding, beyond the boat's prow.

Their cell in the citadel was three paces wide — less, when the second cot was brought in for Bush. But of course that was foolishness: Bush had instinctively measured the tiny cell by Hornblower's ability to pace in it, but Hornblower's days of restless, nervous pacing were done.

"He needs a surgeon," Bush implored the sentry after Hornblower's stretcher was placed on the only bed — not gently enough, for Hornblower let out a soft cry of pain. "A surgeon, a doctor!" he tried again, when they brought in a second bed. But the sentries had no English and even less caring for English needs, and they shut the door on Bush's protests.

There was little Bush could do to make Hornblower comfortable: it would require at least two men to remove Hornblower from the stretcher and into the bed, and even that might cause him pain and injury. But there was a jug of water on the table, and Hornblower's face was still dirty from the battle. Bush undid his own neckcloth, and refolding it so that a clean portion of fabric showed, wet it and knelt down beside Hornblower's bed.

It was not just gunsmoke that dirtied Hornblower's face; there was blood, too, an even spray across his cheek and jaw. Bush turned away to rinse the cloth, but when he put it to Hornblower's cheek again, Hornblower winced and turned away.

"Sir?" Bush asked, going still.

Hornblower gave a low moan, his face furrowing in pain.

"Captain Hornblower, sir," Bush said gently.

It took several long moments, but Hornblower opened his eyes and looked at Bush. He took in Bush's concerned expression, then the stone walls behind him. His gaze trailed across the low stone ceiling, and with an expression of heart-breaking despair, landed on the barred window. "Where are we?" he asked dully.

"The citadel at Rosas, sir."

Hornblower nodded grimly and shut his eyes. "The _Sutherland?"_

"Taken during the second boarding attempt, sir. I'm sorry, sir."

"Tell me," Hornblower ordered, and Bush detailed the remainder of the battle after Hornblower fell: three French ships dismasted and partially disabled beyond the ability of Rosas to repair, while the fourth — the ship the _Sutherland_ had engaged first, which had subsequently shown her heels and fled — injured badly enough that she had ran her pumps all the while she had the _Sutherland_ under tow. "The _Sutherland_ herself is all but a wreck, sir. They won't be able to keep her afloat. They'll have to beach her if they want to save her."

Hornblower seemed to take no satisfaction in the report, only staring at the small barred window while Bush talked. "And the butcher's bill?" he asked, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

"I don't know, sir. I'm sorry, sir. There was no chance to find out. None of us were allowed among the men, and you and I were the first to be taken off."

Hornblower nodded once, his eyes still fastened on the window.

"Will you have some water, sir?" Bush asked.

"No," Hornblower said, shifting on the stretcher. A look of alarm came over his face. "What's wrong with my legs?"

Bush was momentarily tongue-tied. "A cannonball took your foot, sir," he said, wishing there was some kinder way to put it.

"No, not that. They're—!" Hornblower was fighting against the ties on his legs, Bush saw, his look of alarm giving way to panic. "Bush!"

"It's all right, sir." Hornblower's legs jerked, as if trying to kick, and Bush reached for him. Hornblower was trying to sit up, and Bush put an arm around his shoulders, to help him see his legs. "See, the bad one is tied to the good one, sir. It's all right, sir."

But panic had overtaken Hornblower. "Get it off! Get it off!" he ordered, straining to reach the bandage around his thighs, thrashing as much as the splint permitted.

"Shh, lie still, sir, please, sir!"

"Get it off!"

"I'll get them off, sir, but please, sir, lie still!"

But Hornblower did not lie still. Bush tugged at the bandages around Hornblower's legs: only one hand worked properly, and the knots did not spill as easily as they would have in rope. If he had had a knife, he would have cut the bandages, but his knife had been taken from him on the _Sutherland_ as well as his sword. And still Hornblower strained against his bonds, panicked. "Here, sir, please sir, lie still sir, lest you hurt yourself, sir!" Bush pleaded, Hornblower's panic infecting him, too, and then at last the final tie came away. Bush bent protectively over Hornblower's injured leg, lest he bump it in his thrashing, but some sense must have returned to Hornblower with the release of the final tie, for once his good leg came free, he drew up the knee and a great shuddering gasp of relief along with it. He covered his face with his hands, his breath almost sobbing in his lungs.

"There you are, sir, you're all right, sir," Bush said, and unable to resist the urge to comfort Hornblower, he tentatively put his hand on Hornblower's good leg. When Hornblower did not pull away or otherwise protest, Bush gained more confidence and gripped Hornblower's leg more firmly. "You're all right, sir."

Hornblower shook his head, his face still hidden by his hands, and turned to the wall. Bush continued to stroke his leg while Hornblower gasped and shook. At last Hornblower's breathing began to steady, but he still hid his face.

Bush stood to rewet his neckcloth, flooding it with enough water to rinse the blood from it, and wringing it well. "Perhaps you'd like to clean your face, sir. You'll feel better with the dirt off it," he suggested, and pressed the wet cloth into Hornblower's empty hand. It took a few moments, but Hornblower's fingers curled around the cloth. Bush turned his back. There was nothing else in the room but the table and his cot, and so he made a show of twitching his blanket straight, then deliberately mussed it just so he could straighten it again.

"Here," Hornblower said at last, his voice hoarse, and Bush turned to retrieve his grimy neckcloth from Hornblower's hand. He rinsed and wrung it, then came near Hornblower's bed again.

"Let me see, sir," he said gently, and Hornblower turned desperate eyes toward him. There was such shame and anguish in those eyes, and Bush ached to see it. Hornblower was a prodigiously clever and proud man, but he was sensitive, too, devoted to his duty and the Service. Losing both his foot and his ship — Bush could hardly guess which Hornblower mourned more.

"There now, sir, just beside your jaw," Bush said, offering the cloth and indicating on his own face where there was still a spray of blood on Hornblower's.

But instead of taking the cloth from him, Hornblower turned his head still farther, presenting his jaw to Bush. There was something hopeless and despairing in the gesture, and Bush bit his lip. With careful, reverent fingers, he cleaned the blood from Hornblower's face. "Let me see the other side, sir," he said when he finished, his own voice choked with emotion. Hornblower turned his face to the other side, and Bush cleaned the last traces of smoke from it. "There now, sir. Fit to do the Service proud. Will you have some water now, sir?"

Hornblower stared dully at Bush, then shut his eyes, his expression still drawn with pain and fatigue.

"Sir," Bush pleaded. "Please have some water."

"Wash your face," Hornblower ordered listlessly. "You're all over blood."

Bush grimaced and touched his cheek: dried blood flaked away on his fingertips. He remembered then the blood that had blinded him during the battle, and searched out the tacky cut that was its source. He must look like something from a slaughterhouse. It was no wonder Hornblower did not wish to look at him, with the evidence of the _Sutherland's_ last battle — and all that Hornblower had lost during it — all over Bush's face. Bush re-wet his neckcloth and did the best he could, mirrorless, with the mess on his face. When he finished, he rinsed the neckcloth again, the rinse water running a dirty red over his fingers. His neckcloth would be a total loss if it hadn't been regulation black.

"Will you have some water now, sir?" Bush asked, but Hornblower, his eyes still shut, made no reply. At a loss for what to do, Bush sat on his own bed.

The stillness of the cell was oppressive. Bush studied his hands: there was filth under his nails and in the grooves of his callus, but the water in the jug was half-gone already and needed to be reserved for Hornblower. Bush was unused to this sort of stillness; however still and impassive he might appear as an officer of the watch, he was continually watching the horizon, the sky, the sails, and the crew, making his own private judgements as to whether all was being done as it ought and what trouble was about to manifest next. Even when he was off-watch, his mind was similarly occupied with monitoring the ship and her needs. But here there were only the thick stone walls that surrounded them, the barred window that looked out on a desolate patch of sky, and Hornblower lying still and miserable in his stretcher.

Bush could take the silence no longer; he went to the door and beat on it with his fist. There was a barked order in French from the other side of the door.

"My captain needs a surgeon!" Bush called out. "A surgeon! A doctor!"

"Leave it be, Bush," Hornblower said, his voice thin with pain and fatigue, but Bush could not.

"How do you say 'surgeon' in Frog, sir?"

" _Chirurgien_ ," Horatio replied — to Bush's ear, a mumble of half-swallowed sounds.

He turned back to the door. "Shiroojah! Shiroojah!" he shouted, as he beat upon it.

There was another barked order in French — it sounded like the name of the hero _Hercules,_ but could not have been. This time it was accompanied by a key in the lock.

"Stand back, Bush," Hornblower instructed, and Bush took two steps back.

The gendarme opened the door, his glance flicking from Bush to Hornblower and back again. He snapped an annoyed question in French.

"My _capitaine_ needs a surgeon," Bush explained, gesturing to Hornblower. "A shiroojah."

The gendarme glanced at Hornblower. " _Chirurgien,"_ Hornblower said, and then a few words more. Bush recognized nothing else, but Hornblower's tone was self-deprecating — he was not insisting on a surgeon for himself, and Bush's spirit rebelled.

"Sir," he protested, but Hornblower held up a weary hand to silence Bush.

The gendarme answered Hornblower courteously enough, then turned and scolded Bush.

"We're waiting for the governor," Hornblower translated, although that could not have been all of it. " _Merci,_ " he thanked the guard, his voice strained, and said a few more words. The guard nodded to Hornblower and turned a scowl on Bush, then exited, closing the door behind him. Again, the key scraped in the lock.

"You need a surgeon, sir," Bush protested. "Your leg."

"My leg hardly matters now," Hornblower said, nearly querulous with fatigue and pain.

"Sir!" Bush protested in alarm, coming toward the bed.

"Oh, be still," Hornblower snapped. "You're exhausting me."

Remorse immediately flooded Bush. Hornblower indeed looked very ill, his face ashen and body tense, as if fighting against the pain of his leg. Bush sank down onto his cot, one hand clasped in the other, and tried not to chafe at the delay. If the surgeon had been on his own behalf, he could have borne the wait stoically, but it was a different matter when it was Hornblower who lay suffering.

It was not so very long before there were voices outside and the key turned in the lock again, and yet it seemed that each minute had been an hour. Again there was that barked order in French — that mangled _Hercules._ Bush had no gift with languages, but he stood back from the door again, not needing Hornblower's translation a second time. A gendarme glared at them through the cracked door, then satisfied that neither of his prisoners was about to rush the opening, stood back for a military officer of the army type to enter. A French general, his uniform generously embellished in gold, his chest heavy with decorations.

Hornblower struggled to sit up to receive him, then fell back with a soft cry; Bush dropped to his knees by his side. "There now, sir, lay still, please, sir," he said, touching Hornblower's shoulder. He turned on the French general in a fury. "He needs a surgeon, sir! A shiroojah, _s'il vous plaît!"_

But the general was not paying attention to Bush; he had turned aside, and was snapping furious orders at his gendarmes. There: _chirurgien,_ Bush heard with relief, and a gendarme replied likewise before scurrying away.

The general bowed curtly; he was pale, betraying a squeamishness that was unbecoming to his position. His short speech to Bush was almost apologetic, but there it was again, that blessed word, _chirurgien._

" _Merci,_ sir," Bush said, and with another nod, the general left.

"They've gone to fetch a surgeon, sir," Bush said, praying that he had understood correctly. Hornblower's hand was in his: Hornblower had reached out in his distress, and Bush had taken it without thought.

"I don't want you here for it, Bush," Hornblower said, his voice tight with pain. He was deathly gray, and he gripped Bush's hand tightly, his hand belying his words.

"I'm staying with you, sir," Bush said staunchly.

"I won't have it. I won't… disgrace myself in front of you."

"There's no disgrace, sir. Rest and don't worry, sir. It'll be all right, you'll see, sir. I won't leave you alone with them, sir."

Hornblower did not reply, except to withdraw his hand from Bush's, knotting his fingers in the blanket instead.

Dismay filled Bush, but he did not protest. "It'll be all right, sir," he said again. "I'll make sure of it."

When Hornblower did not respond, Bush shifted so that he was seated on the floor, his back to the wall at the head of Hornblower's bed: there he could see both Hornblower and the door, and would be near at hand if Hornblower needed him.

The surgeon must have been busy elsewhere, for it was some hours before he appeared; the light had gone at the window, and Bush blinked in the sudden lantern light from the door. The surgeon's sleeves were rolled, his wrists red, his apron bloody. There was another man with him; he, too, showed signs of having had a bloody afternoon and evening.

Bush stood to make space beside Hornblower's bed. "Are you the shiroojah?"

" _Chirugo, si,"_ the man replied, then, " _Oui, oui."_ He asked a question Bush did not understand, his eyes on Hornblower.

"The surgeon is here, sir," Bush said instead of attempting to answer, touching Hornblower's shoulder to rouse him. As Hornblower blinked himself into wakefulness, the surgeon asked his question again.

" _Oui,"_ Hornblower answered, then gripped the rails of his stretcher when the surgeon reached for his stump.

Bush watched fretfully, ready to intervene if the man hurt Hornblower unnecessarily, but the surgeon was gentle as he deftly unwrapped the bandages. The surgeon continued his quiet questions; Bush heard Hornblower introduce himself and Bush; Bush nodded a polite bow in response to his name. Hornblower hissed as the bandages came away and air struck his naked wound; Bush, uncharacteristically disturbed by the sight of the wound, averted his eyes from the mess of raw flesh, sinew, and bone.

The surgeon considered the tangle thoughtfully, then gave an order to his assistant; the assistant went to the door and passed the instruction to the gendarme outside. When the assistant returned, he opened the surgeon's bag and began laying implements out on the table: several wicked blades, including a broad, hooked knife; a saw; pincers… It was a brutal array, and Bush protectively stepped closer to Hornblower.

Bush did not understand Hornblower's next words, but he picked out from among them the Frog pronunciation of _lieutenant_ with its childish _ooh_ and _ahh_. The surgeon flicked a curious glance at Bush and asked Hornblower a question, which Hornblower answered with some heat.

"Don't worry, sir," Bush reassured Hornblower, with a wary eye for the surgeon. "I'm staying with you. I won't leave you alone with them."

The surgeon's brow went up as he looked between them both, but Hornblower ignored Bush, speaking to the surgeon again, this time with some agitation.

"It's all right, sir. Please, sir, relax, sir," Bush said, reaching out to touch Hornblower's shoulder soothingly, but it did nothing to calm him. Hornblower barked something in French to the surgeon, straining under Bush's hand, then repeated it again.

" _Oui, oui,"_ the surgeon agreed reassuringly, patting Hornblower's good leg, this time with a narrow glance at Bush.

Just then the gendarmes returned to the door. The assistant went to retrieve a chair and a coil of rope, setting them in the only clear space in the room and moving the lantern to cast its light upon it. The surgeon asked the gendarmes a question, glancing at Bush. They too looked at Bush, consulting briefly between themselves, before answering in the affirmative.

Bush felt a sudden apprehension, and he turned pleading eyes on his captain. "Sir. Please, sir. Don't do this, sir. Let me stay with you."

"You will leave now, Mr Bush," Hornblower said, steely-voiced, as a gendarme touched Bush's elbow. Bush yanked away from his filthy touch.

"Sir. I'm staying with you, sir."

The surgeon barked an exasperated order at the gendarme, who took Bush by the elbow again. This time the man held on when Bush tried to jerk away; he was joined on the other side by his fellow, who also took a firm hold of Bush.

"Sir! Please, sir!" Bush pleaded, as they began to pull him from of the room.

"Don't make a scene, Bush," Hornblower said, his eyes still coldly turned away.

"Sir! Sir! Unhand me, you dogs!"

It was impossible to allow himself to be quietly led away; impossible to leave Hornblower to endure unknown horrors alone while surrounded by the enemy. Bush knew he was shaming Hornblower, but for once in his life, he did not care. Hornblower was injured, gravely ill, in jeopardy of his life and with none but Bush to guard him; Hornblower must not be left alone to the mercies of that Frog butcher of a surgeon.

Bush was still shouting imprecations at the gendarmes as they thrust him into a neighboring cell. When they released him, he lunged for the open door, only to have it shut in his face. He beat on the door, still hurling abuse, but the key scraped in the lock, leaving him helpless and without recourse.

This cell was empty; it was from here that Bush's cot had been taken to furnish their own. Like its neighbour, this cell also had a barred window that looked out upon that same pathetic patch of sky; upon looking out, the moon beyond brought Bush no comfort. Again he returned to the door to beat upon it, yelling threats at his jailers, but he received no response: they had gone away and left him alone.

It was agony to pace the cell and wait, four steps one way and four back again, not knowing what they did to Hornblower next door. But that agony was nothing compared to the torment of Hornblower's first muffled shout — Bush clung to the bars of the window, straining to hear. It was impossible to make sense of it: the indistinct and incomprehensible words between the surgeon and his assistant, Hornblower's pained moans and shouts as they did— what to him? It was impossible to know, and yet still Bush strained to hear, trembling with his inability to stop it.

Then Hornblower screamed, a piercing sound of purest agony, and Bush would have ripped the bars from the window, if he'd been capable of it. He called back to Hornblower, but of course it was futile; there was no comfort he could offer at that distance, even if he could be heard over Hornblower's scream. The scream died away into sobs, and Bush gave desperate thanks that Hornblower's torment was over—

Hornblower screamed again.

Bush's duties in battle had mainly kept him well away from the cockpit, but more than once in his long career he had descended into that bloody pit of hell where the ship's surgeon did his work: nightmare images of limbs deliberately flayed and sawn, torments that could be no more cruel than if they had been designed by devils. Bush was helpless to do anything but listen. Some panicked part of his mind insisted that they were killing Hornblower, murdering him by cruel, slow degrees — and Bush could not say it no, not to hear the way Hornblower screamed for deliverance.

When the gendarme finally came for him, Bush's face was wet and his hands bloody. All had been silent for a long while, and he could not say in his heart whether Hornblower had lived or died. He could not tell from gendarme's face, either; the sentry was unnaturally pale, his expression one of pity. He beckoned to Bush, and Bush pushed himself up from his seat against the wall.

Hornblower's cell, when Bush was returned to it, smelled of shit and piss, although neither was otherwise in evidence. The chair had been removed; a dark stain marked where it had stood. Hornblower lay in his bed, covered by a blanket; the stretcher was gone. His face showed white in the lamplight, nearly as pale as the collar of his nightshirt. Against all odds, he was awake; he watched Bush, his eyes glittering and black in that ghostly face. The gendarme retreated, taking the light with him, but that ghostly face was still visible in the gloom.

"Sir," Bush said, approaching the bed. He went to one knee, and then the other. "Captain Hornblower. Sir."

"Bush," Hornblower whispered, his voice thin and hoarse.

From screaming, Bush realised, and his heart broke all over again.

Hornblower reached for him, and Bush took his hand. It was cold, and Bush wrapped it in his other hand to warm it.

"Bush," Hornblower said again, his voice heavy with despair.

"I'm here, sir," Bush replied, and not knowing what moved him, only that he was powerless to hold back the gesture, kissed Hornblower's hand.

When Bush lifted his head again, Hornblower's fingers were wet with tears, and Bush stroked them to dry them. Hornblower watched him dry-eyed, his expression bleak with misery.

"Will you have some water, sir?" Bush asked.

Hornblower's thin hand moved in Bush's, and Bush caressed it in return. "Yes," Hornblower said, and Bush felt a rush of relief. He gently replaced Hornblower's hand upon the bed, then turned away to pour some water into the tin cup. Hornblower was too weak to sit up and drink; Bush put an arm around him to help him.

Hornblower lay back, exhausted.

"Sleep now, sir," Bush said. "I'll keep the watch."

Hornblower shut his eyes, and Bush took that for assent. Bush emptied the cup and returned it to the table, then stripping the blanket from his own cot, he dragged the straw ticking to the floor beside Hornblower's bed. It was an awkward job, with only one fully functioning arm.

"Bush?" Hornblower asked.

"So I'm in reach if you need me during the night, sir," Bush said, prepared to argue the matter if Hornblower objected. But Hornblower did not object, and so Bush took up his blanket and arranged himself on the ticking, like a faithful dog guarding its master.

"I had to send you away, Bush," Hornblower said, his voice thin and fretful. "I couldn't—"

"Shh, sir," Bush soothed. "It's all right, sir. I'm here now." As much as it had hurt to be sent away, he understood why his captain had done so: Hornblower would never allow himself to be shamed in front of a subordinate. He had very little left to him, after the loss of his ship and his foot: his few remaining scraps of dignity were everything now.

That he had allowed Bush to return to his side afterward, that was the important thing.

"I'm here now, sir. Sleep now, sir," Bush repeated.

Hornblower might have drowsed off then, Bush thought. But then he shifted in his bed: a sharp catch of breath, his breathing suddenly harsh with pain.

"Sir?" Bush asked. He received no answer, but Hornblower's thin fingers, pale in the moonlight, curled tensely around the rail of his cot. Greatly daring, Bush reached up to brush them with his own and found his hand being tightly held. Bush gripped Hornblower's hand in return, and slowly Hornblower's breath began to ease again.

"I'm here, sir," Bush whispered, listening to Hornblower breathe. "Try to sleep, sir," Bush encouraged, and rearranged himself on his pallet so that he could hold Hornblower's hand for as long as Hornblower required it.


End file.
